When I was a young girl of 13, the most fearsome creatures on the planet were the members of the Hell’s Angel’s motorcycle gang. They would roar through town, leather jackets and boots, tattoos, long hair flying, beards, chains, the darkest glasses, and bandanas around their brows. They were sooo cool and sooo scary. I wondered what it would be like to have that much macho, that much raw power. All my giggly teen girlfriends thought the bad boys were unbelievably sexy. I guess it’s always been that way. In the Wild West, gunslingers were the Hell’s Angels of their day and I’m sure they had a lot of young women swooning over them.
I didn’t have the courage to actually meet one of the Hell’s Angels, but few years later when I was a bit wilder and nearly 17, I met them. My friend Sandy had her own apartment and knew an Hell’s Angel—Hog Bob. One would think it was because he rode a Harley (Hog), but I think it was because of his lack of personal hygiene. We didn’t like to get too close, and he often got tossed into swimming pools at parties.
Bob was NOT the sharpest knife in the drawer when it came to brain power, but he gave great parties. He once drove his Harley off a second floor balcony into the pool. This ended up costing him a bundle in repairs to his bike and the property, but he didn’t seem to mind.
I never told my parents that I was going to “Biker” parties. I guess they trusted me. They shouldn’t have, but they did. Oh, it wasn’t as bad as you might think. Yes, the drugs and alcohol flowed like Niagra Falls, but for some uncanny reason, I was cautious. I didn’t do the drugs. I did, however indulge in alcohol. To this day I can’t drink a Screwdriver or Harvey Wallbanger—too much puke involved in my memories of those things. I smoked cigarettes and a little pot, but nothing excessive. There was a lot of sex, but I wasn’t interested. I had a boyfriend. That was enough. Plus, my young age put me in the “to be protected” category. They had a strange code of honor.
So, I was living the “bad” life without really living the “bad” life. Later, I married (at 18) and moved to the San Francisco area where, after leaving my husband, I led a brief, but intense lifestyle as a hippie/flower child. Interesting, but not the life I wanted. So, I returned to my husband and plotted my escape. At 21, I had my chance and moved back to the Los Angeles area to live with my recently divorced mother, work, go to school, and party, party, party.
I worked as a waitress (a really bad one) at Dino’s, an Italian restaurant on Victory Blvd in Van Nuys, CA. My bosses’ son lived downstairs. Of course I was sleeping with him. What did you think? I was a slut. It was my job. My mother once told me that nice girls never had any fun. I guess I took her at her word. While living together, we often dated the same men. She was a beauty.
When my mother married and moved out, I had no one to keep me in line at all. More partying, more men, more rock and roll. I had a string of interesting men in my life, including a classical organist, an exiled New Zealand wrestler, an Italian Adonis who spoke no English, and a Gandolf wizard wannabe. The wrestler couldn’t go back to his country for some mysterious reason. Perhaps because he was in the African animal skin smuggling business—zebras, lions, and such.
It was during this wild-woman time in my life that I finally got to be a biker babe. I met a mechanic through work who was in a biker club. Chopped hogs, ape hangers, loud, flashy, and dangerous looking. We would put on our scariest leather and chains, adopt a swagger, and an I’m-too-cool-for-my-skin attitude, then we pack would mount our bikes and roar through the freeways and streets of Southern California.
It was amazing how many people got out of our way—fast, or wouldn’t look at us. We were loud, wild, and tough looking. I wore short shorts called “hotpants,” thigh high boots and a leather vest. Yeah, I had the body for it in those days, sigh!
I don’t remember much about that time. Don’t ask why. But one thing stands out in my mind clear and sure. Our trip from San Fernando Valley to Big Bear Mountain. I was on the back of a chopped Harley. This was before helmet laws. and the long ride was hard, jolting and loud. My long, dark hair flew free and wild. It was wonderful! Well, except for the bugs in my teeth and my aching ass. Plus I have screeching tinnitus now, that probably contributed.
Alas, as with most of my men, I grew tired of Richard (my biker boy) because he didn’t have much to offer in the brains department. I’ve always been more attracted to brains than braun or beauty. The novelty had worn off and I was looking for something different. After a few months, I checked that experience off my list and moved on. I had done it. I had been a biker babe. Whatta ride. Next up was a psychopath who nearly shot me. But that is another story.
Live, Love, Laugh,